


Keeping Up With The Singers

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, All the parents are dead, Basically it's like a bunch of snapshots from growing up as Singer, Bobby Feels, Bobby Singer Adoptive Father, Bobby Singer is a secret sofite pass it on, Brief mention of real parents dying, Dead Parents, Except the adopted ones, Such a good parent, enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by nonnie on Tumblr):It’s a fic with a FatherFigure!Bobby, and the reader helps him with research and sometimes comes with him on hunts. But he gets nervous when she starts going on solo hunts so he sends the Winchesters (who the reader has only heard about) to keep an eye on her, but she figures out pretty quickly that she’s being followed





	Keeping Up With The Singers

You’re nine years old and it’s still dark out but you can’t stop looking at the random spot in the floor where your mom had stood. She’d told you it would be fine, and she was just going to go check on your dad. Then you’d heard shouting, screaming, and banging noises that you can’t get out of your head. She’d told you to stay here no matter what you heard, so you did. You were too scared of the noises to move anyway.

If you look hard enough at the spot on the floor you can pretend that your mom is still there telling you to be good.

You don’t know how long it is before your bedroom door opens. Normally you’re terrible at keeping yourself quiet without something to do. Your mom just tries to keep you busy and your dad calls you sugar because you always have the energy of a sugar high. It’s still the middle of the night though and you’re slowed down by tiredness, so you keep looking at that spot on the floor.

It’s not either of your parents who walk through your door. It’s a stranger. He looks like the guy who sits outside the post office with a bottle in a brown paper bag, your mom always drags you to avoid him. Except this man is wearing a baseball cap, post office man doesn’t, and he’s holding what looks like a sword. Only heroes have swords, so this man must be a hero.  

His eyes get all big when he looks at you and he tries to hide his sword behind his back but it’s too big. You don’t mind it anyway. You wouldn’t mind getting a chance to play with it if you were allowed, in the morning maybe because you’re still tired.

“Hey kiddo,” he’s nice you can tell. He bends a little at the foot of your bed so he can talk to you better. “What’s your name?”

You know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers, but this is a hero you think. Heroes are different. Besides your dad wouldn’t have let him inside the house if he was a bad stranger. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet ya Y/N. My name is Bobby.”

He holds out a hand, the one without the sword, and you shake it like you’ve seen your dad do. Your hand isn’t big enough to get a good hold though, so you end up clamping two hands over his and shaking him a little vigorously.

He laughs a little, “solid handshake kid.”

When he stands up again he doesn’t seem scary anymore, but you think maybe he’s not as nice to bad guys.

“Y/N, is there anybody else in the house?”

You wrinkle your nose at the question because it’s odd. It’s the first time anyone has ever asked you anything like that. But you know the answer, so you tell him, “just me and my mom and my dad.”

That makes Bobby look sad, but he shakes his shoulders and it goes away. You wonder where he learned that trick.

“Listen, kid, we need to get you out of the house, but you have to do exactly what I say understand?”

You’ve seen films and you know that the hero is always right, so you nod and follow him. If he says you need to leave the house, then he probably knows best. He’s an adult after all.

He stops you at the top of the stairs and looks around like something is going to jump out at you. Halfway down he stops you again and walks ahead to close the sliding doors to the dining room. You’re not sure why they were open because you only use that room for special occasions. But Bobby doesn’t know your house like you do. He doesn’t know that your dad installed a latch on the doors because they kept sliding open on their own. You open your mouth to tell him about it, but he raises a finger to his lips to shush you.

The doors start sliding open when you’re walking past, and you turn to close and latch them yourself when you look into the dining room. It’s a mess, there’s a broken chair that your mom will be so mad about. You’re looking around wondering what happened to the nice dining room when you notice an arm lying on the floor behind the table. All thoughts of following orders gone as you step into the room. You want to find out who did this so that you can tell your parents. You don’t want to get in trouble for this mess.

“Daddy?”

The floor is red, it wasn’t always that color. He looks like he could be sleeping except when you reach out to shake him awake his head falls back and his eyes stare out without blinking. At the same time a hand clamps onto your shoulder and spins you away. You look up to see Bobby, he looks mad but that doesn’t matter. You wrap your arms around him because he has a sword and might be a hero.

* * *

 

You’re thirteen when Bobby comes home early from a hunt to find you with a boy, although not just any boy, Scott Vaughan. Bobby doesn’t get the shotgun like you’re so expecting him to, but you know he’s been hunting a wraith and a pretty tough one, so his kindness may just be exhaustion.

He does, however, stare down Scott like he’s _thinking_ about getting the shotgun, “Boy, I suggest you get yourself out of my house before I quit asking so nicely.”

Scott doesn’t need any more warning than that. He’s running out of the door while your lips are still warm and bruised.

Bobby turns his attention to you. You can see his jaw tick under his beard and he’s adopting his favorite parenting technique. Silence. As usual, it works like a charm. You spill your guts in seconds.

“I didn’t know you’d be home so soon. I mean that’s not the point I shouldn’t have had him over but it’s Scott Vaughan.”

He chews the inside of his mouth and raises his eyebrows, “you mean to tell me I come home to find you with a boy and the idjit has two first names?”

You hate that you care so much about what Bobby thinks. Not that this was the ideal way to introduce the two of them, but his comment instantly sends hot embarrassment up over your face. “I’m sorry ok. Maybe if you’d have taken me with you this never would have happened!”

Now he’s just plain frustrated. “Is that what this is about? Some way for you to guilt me into taking you on hunts?”

You concentrate on your fingers playing with a thread that’s hanging loose from your tee, rather than look him in the eyes and see his rejection again, “no, I swear I didn’t know you’d be home. I just really like Scott and… god, it’s true though, I’d be much safer _with_ you.”

He sighs and shuffles to the kitchen grabbing a beer from the fridge but you’re not stupid enough to think this is over because he’s walked away.

He comes back, bottle in hand, and motions for you to sit on the opposite side of his desk. Normally this means that he’s trying to let you down easy, which in Bobby’s case means he’s still going to say no but he’ll try his best to pretend he’s listening. This was where you’d been sitting when he first told you about the things he hunts when he leaves or what really happened to your parents. It was also where he’d sat you the first time you asked to help him.

“Kid, you’re thirteen, ain’t no way in creation I’m taking you on hunts.”

It was more direct than you were expecting.

“Bobby, please. I want to learn. I’m not a kid anymore.”

He raises his bottle to you in a salute, but his eyes stay hard and tired, “mazel tov. Still not taking you kiddo.”

You sit there with your arms crossed and bottom lip thrust outwards. Not that it ever works on him but sulking makes you feel better.

“What about research? I just want to help.”

He looks you over like you’re a purchase he’s trying to decide on. He pulls the front of his cap down and then tips it back again, not showing any change in his face while you flash him your best doe eyes.

“ _If_ I let you help out on research…” 

You’re out of your chair as soon as ‘if’ has left his mouth, wrapping your arms around him and muttering, “thank you,” over and over again.

His arms wrap around you even as he huffs out, “get off me kid, sit back down. I said if I let you help, nothing before school work alright?”

You slink back into your seat, nodding and grinning widely only for it to be wiped off of your face with his next sentence.

“About this idjit you like. Not too thrilled about this but I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

* * *

 

You’re fifteen and Bobby is sitting next to you in the front of a pick-up truck he’s kicked back to life for this very purpose. You’ve busted a gut to get to this moment, drivers ed, acing the written exam, begging the old man. Technically you’re allowed to drive since you have your restricted minors permit but Bobby is really hung up on those magical little words, ‘with a parent or guardian’s permission’. He’s insisting on taking you out a few times before he’ll even think about giving you such a chance, and, in his words, “if you total this hunk of junk I won’t lose money.”

He looks worried. The lines around his eyes look deeper than they ever have and there’s a muscle twitching below his brow that you’d never notice if you didn’t see it every time he leaves.

“Bobby, it’s going to be fine. I’m an excellent driver. Highest written exam score of all my friends because somebody,” you nudge his shoulder from the driver’s seat, “taught me how to crack open a book every now and then.”

“Sure,” he grunts without looking at you, “let’s just get this over with.”

The truck rumbles fiercely under you, the engine sends waves of power through the wheel all the way into your fingertips. This felt good. You felt powerful. You’re so confident that you happily waste time cranking the window down before setting off as if that’s your biggest concern.

As soon as you’re out on the road you can taste the freedom in the back of your throat. Wind whips through the cab bringing the smell of tarmac and summer, and the sun hangs low enough to give you afternoon light but not to blind you. In a word, the driving conditions are perfect, even in a defunct truck that shouldn’t be running.

With the road empty and your foot on the accelerator maintaining a nearly constant speed you dare a glance at Bobby but in the same second he barks at you, “eyes on the road Y/N.” You were definitely losing points in the Bobby school of driving for that.

Occasionally he’ll huff an order at you. Turn left. Take that exit. He even makes you pull in for gas like you’re going to do it wrong and blow the place up instead of simply putting the gas in the tank. It’s all very drill sergeant. 

When you finally pull back into the scrapyard, coming to a screeching halt, the truck bounces merrily on its rickety suspension.

Bobby has a honed expression of indifference, you’ve seen him gush over a Joni Mitchel album you bought him for Christmas one year and vent his frustration at Rumsfeld for digging up half the yard, with hardly a difference in the way he holds his features. You’ve learned by now it’s better to wait for his words than try to read him.

“You drive like you’re trying to wrangle cats blindfolded.”

“Excuse me, old man, I’m an excellent driver.”

“I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive kid, I’ll be the judge of that.”

You fold your arms over your chest. It’s your knee-jerk reaction to being told that perhaps you are not as great as you believe, and you relent a little, “fine. I’m a cat wrangler. Are you going to let me drive to school instead of taking the bus, you know, where _any_ danger could be lurking?”

His mouth quirks, a good sign, “you can drive this, for now. Keep it running and we’ll see what happens.” He pats the dash of the truck and it takes all of your willpower not to groan. You were hoping he’d at least let you drive something with working air conditioning, but you weren’t going to complain. It had four wheels, would let you get an extra ten minutes in bed each morning and it was all yours.

Your fingers wrap around the keys tightly as you follow him into the house and you elbow him this time, “you gonna teach me how to fix it up?”

He actually looks a little affronted at your question, “as if I’mma let you start calling triple A.”

* * *

 

You’re seventeen sitting in a cap and gown with your head down to stop the glare of the sun in your eyes. With one leg crossed over the other, your foot is tapping nervously in the air. You keep finding lint sticking to your gown, concentrating on picking it off and flicking it away instead of looking behind you.  

It’s fine if he doesn’t make it. You understand. You told him it would be ok.

Like everyone else in your class, you’ve dressed for the occasion underneath the blue polyester. Bobby had stuffed some bills into your hand the week before and told you to buy yourself something special for graduation. You’d chosen a pale-yellow dress that doesn’t clash obscenely with your school’s navy gowns. You figure you can reuse it if you do anything special for your birthday in a few weeks and you’d also picked it because it’s the least hunter dress you’ve ever seen. It’s a sweetheart neckline and the pleated skirt would look ridiculous with combat boots. The woman in the store called you a beautiful ‘young lady’ when you’d tried it on. You owned nothing else this pretty. It’s so very normal and you chose it to make Bobby happy.

As much as you want to hunt. As much as you already spend your days researching and soaking up all the information you can. Making yourself as useful as you can in the hopes that he’ll relent, today is not about hunting.

Today is about you graduating high school because a grumpy old man once saved your life and raised you like you’re his own daughter. For Bobby that meant making sure you had a GED, letting you dip you a toe into _that_ world but still making sure you kept one foot in normality. It meant he made sure you went to Prom, he gave you a curfew, argued with you when you missed it and he warms up your favorite soup when you’re sick. Hell, he knows what your favorite soup is.

Which is why it’s killing you that he might not be here. This is his day as much as it is yours. Maybe more his.

There’d been a hunt. There always is at the worst possible time. Bobby doesn’t always travel long distances for hunts, electing to send someone in his extensive network if it’s too far, but the Winchesters had called. It sounded serious. It usually was with them.

You’d told him to go. He didn’t promise he’d be here because he didn’t know if he’d make it back, and you didn’t ask him to say it because you knew there was a chance you’d be alone today. 

Instead, you’d bit back whatever you were feeling and told him to go save the day. Melissa’s mom would be recording the whole thing anyway and you’ll get him a copy. You gave him a backup plan, Bobby loves a backup plan, and you’d watched him go.

It’s the first time you’d watched him leave and both not wanted him to go and not wanted him to take you along. You’d simply wanted him to stay.

They start calling names from the row ahead of yours so everyone sitting beside you stands up and starts shuffling towards the line at the side of the stage. 

In the line, you talk to Harry who’s standing in front of you. He’s nervous about tripping so you advise him not to watch his feet. You still don’t look out into the crowd.

Harry’s name gets called and you put your foot on the first step waiting for yours. You remember that you’ll have to look out when you get your diploma in your hand because you need to wave at Melissa’s mom for the video. You didn’t necessarily need to look before then. 

“Y/N Y/L/N”

Something about hearing your name puts your body into autopilot. Your feet grace the stage, hands coming out of your gown in the practiced motion of taking your diploma and shaking a hand at the same time. And you look out with a smile, eyes scanning for the auburn hair all of Melissa’s family have.

But Bobby is there. He’s standing in the middle of his row. He can’t have just arrived then for where he’s sitting. He’s in a suit that’s a little nicer than his FBI duds and he’s not wearing his usual trucker cap. You miss it instantly. He smiles at you, actually cracks that face of his into a smile and then pulls out this disposable camera that you just _know_ he bought at a gas station on the way back.

You don’t think you could grin any bigger if you tried. After his finger has clicked away a few times you give him little salute before you’re ushered off the stage by the flow of people waiting to have their own moment.

The second the whole thing is over you find him waiting in the back away from all the other parents. He’s leaning against this tree looking like he should have a bottle of beer in his hand even when he’s scrubbed up all respectable. You’re on him before he can push away from the bark, arms around his neck and face buried in his chest because there _might_ be tears in your eyes that you’re trying to blink away.  

Of course, you missed your parents today, the ones that brought you into the world, you’d had your moment for them that morning. But Bobby, your father in every way that mattered, was here.

You snatch the little yellow camera from his hand and grab the first person you see to take a picture of you together. They snap a few as you slip your arm through his. He actually made it.

He takes you out for dinner that night, to a real restaurant. He tells you about the hunt and you tell him what he missed on TV while he was gone. When you get home he kisses your forehead before you go to bed, which he’s probably done twice in your life, and he tells you he’s proud of you.  

* * *

 

You’ve just turned eighteen and Bobby has _finally_ agreed. He’d argued, he wouldn’t be Bobby if he hadn’t argued. He’d told you that he didn’t spend the last decade watching you grow up to see you get yourself killed. But you’d kept your cool. You reminded him that he’d been training you for years, you've been researching and learning this stuff for as long as you can remember. You’re only tagging along on a hunt anyway.

It’s what you want for your birthday.

He isn’t happy, but Bobby never denies you what you want for your birthday.

He doesn’t understand why you are so adamant about wanting to hunt. He’s tried at every turn to set you straight and convince you it’s a bloody, no good life. What Bobby doesn’t understand is that the person you look up to most in the entire world, your role model, is the best hunter you know.

And besides, maybe one day you can stop what happened to you becoming some other poor kids fate. Not that you can say that to Bobby’s face, you’re incredibly grateful for the life he’s given you and you don’t want him to think that you aren’t, but no kid should remember the lifeless look on their dad’s face.

He decides that your first one should be a ghost. Salt and burns are an easy stepping stone and usually don’t need any obscure lore or references. It’s just good ol’ fashioned research and some digging.

He makes a day out of it, says that if it’s your birthday present, since you’re an idjit, then you’d damn well celebrate it. On the drive to Winnipeg, you stop at this bakery with amazing cakes in the window and you both pick something to eat in the truck by the highway.

Once you arrive in town he gives you a simple suit, you’re posing as reps from the insurance company although the suit would work for most covers. Regardless the gift means that Bobby Singer, at some point, went shopping for women’s clothing and you have to take a step away to subdue your giggling at the mental image. It’s not necessarily the shopping part that makes you laugh, there’s a whole dressing room montage in your head and he’s trying on the pencil skirt in your hands.

While he’s interviewing the victim’s wife, you act as the sympathetic support. A touch on her shoulder to comfort her when she cries and a careful squeeze of her hands as you both leave. There’s a fine line and if you cross it then suddenly you start looking less and less like an insurance investigator. Bobby doesn’t complain when you both get back into his truck, so you think you’ve done well.

It only takes an hour to figure out who the ghost is and where he’s buried. This part, the research, you’ve been training for this. It’s all you’ve been allowed to do for years and you’ve gotten good at it. He doesn’t even seem to realize how good you’ve gotten until just now.

That night you dig up your first grave. It’s brutal and slow because you’re new to this but you get it done. You scramble out of the pit you’ve dug unceremoniously before you add the salt and lighter fluid. Bobby’s eyes have been between watching you and keeping lookout the entire time. You’d insisted on doing this yourself and he’d said that if you wanted to do the grunt work that was fine by him.

The fire burns hot and fast before you’re packing the dirt back in.

When you’re back in the truck for the last time that day you finally ask him, “so, how’d I do?”

He pretends he has no idea what you’re talking about, “with what?”

“The hunt. My first hunt. Unless I asked you a direct question you’ve barely said two words to me all day. I assumed I was being graded.”

He takes his hand away from the keys in the ignition and scratches at the scruffy bread on his face. “This was what you wanted to do for your birthday.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes or the sigh. The game he’s playing is just _too_ ridiculous. “This was a test and you know it. I know you probably wanted me to fail so you can tell me that I can’t hunt and…”

“I don’t want you to be useless, kid.”

Your eyes blink at him like you’re seeing him for the first time that day.

“Then what do you want Bobby?”

It’s his turn to sigh but when it comes out of a package like Bobby Singer it seems way more dramatic. “I want you to have a normal life but you got some bull-headed notions from me over the years and now you’re stuck on this idea that you’ve gotta be a hunter. You haven’t kiddo, you can go be normal anytime you like.”

You’ve spent nine years living with Bobby Singer. Even someone like him you learn to hear what he’s not saying. He’ll still be there for you if you don’t hunt, you don’t have to follow him.

What you’ll never be able to drum into a skull as thick as his is that you’re not following him into this life because you have to, you’re doing it because you want to. He’s been your hero since he took you in all those years ago and you just want to be someone else’s hero. With the things you know, how much you want it, you could be great at this job.

“I want to do this Bobby. I want to save people. There’s not enough of us out there saving them. I can have one normal life or I can save hundreds of other people so they can have normal lives.”

Neither of you talks for a minute. He looks out into the darkness for answers and you find yourself staring at a scuff on the dash that you did when you were twelve maybe? A ghost of a smile plays on your face more for the fact that he hasn’t buffed it out all these years later.

“You did good today kid. Not bad for your first time out.”

* * *

 

You’re twenty-one and packing a bag. It’s not the first time you’ve packed for a hunt but it’s the first time you won’t be able to rely on Bobby having something if you forget it.

His voice travels up the stairs to you, “you don’t have to go, let me call someone. I’ll send Danny.”

There’s a smile in your voice as you shout back at him, “like hell you will old man. I’ll be fine, ‘sides you seem to have forgotten that Danny is halfway the other side of the country working a shapeshifter case out in Reno.”

Your fingers riffle through everything for the sixth time. You’re not nervous about the case itself but if you mess this up, your first case on your own, he’ll never let you hear the end of it. You’d take a giant step ten-years back, trying to convince him you can do this all over again.

When you’re finally satisfied you bound down the stairs two at a time, same as always, only to be met with Bobby nursing a glass of whiskey this early in the day and a deep shadows under his eyes.

“Bobby?”

His head lifts slowly like it’s being weighed down by a hundred different things. It probably is, you weren’t the only thing on his mind. “You call when you get there and don’t go driving all night, stop and sleep somewhere.”

“I’ll call when I get to a motel tonight and when I roll into Nashville tomorrow. Promise.”

His mouth twitches like he has something more to say but he takes a swig of the amber liquid in his glass instead.

“I’m sorry about John, and erm. Sam and Dean are coming to stay for a while, right?” You hadn’t met the boys, but John had passed through while you’d been around over the years. Although you hadn’t cared for him any hunter dying was never good news.

“Yep. Dean’ll want to be fixing his car.”

You scowl, “the scrap metal out the front? I thought that was out there for show, it needs to be condemned.”

If he could smile he would but Bobby hasn’t smiled in weeks. Instead, he just gives you a softer look than the hardness his face had been wearing, “I told Sam as much.”

There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to leave because in his own surly way Bobby needs you. You wouldn’t be surprised if you’re half the fault for his attitude, you know he’s worried about you even after three years of hunting with him. But his friend just died, and Sam and Dean are coming to stay. You know Bobby is going to spend however long they’re here worrying about them and with you gone there will be no one left to worry about him.

But he’s strong, and he’ll last the week you’ll be gone. People are already dying down in Tennessee. You can try and figure out how to fix Bobby when you get back.

You’re trying to ease his mind when you wrap your arms around his shoulders where he sits and whisper, “love you old man.” It’s not often either of you say the words, never really needing to. Today though you hope it’ll help him.

Then he pats a hand on your forearm at his chest, holding a little too tight, and you wonder if you’ve only made your departure worse for him.

* * *

 

You’re twenty-one and leaving the police station in the great city of Nashville. You know how to dress at this point to look a little older and command a smidge more respect but you’re still grateful every time you get away with it. It’d be easy enough for sheriffs to write you off either due to your age or your gender, so every cooperation is a win.

Today isn’t your first trip to the station though, they at least know your face by now. The fresh-faced FBI agent investigating a grisly string of murders. From the original news reports you’d thought haunting but now that you’re here you’re pretty sure that it’s a witch or witches. It’s always hard to tell when the bad guys are human. Were you dealing with one or a coven? Didn’t really matter, they were killing men in droves. Men who had all been to the same bar and had apparently been close to cheating on their significant others. Cheating aside victims were still victims.

You walk past the brown minivan on the way back to your car and wonder what South Dakota plates are doing all the way down here, other than yours obviously.

The next time you see that van again is while you’re in the neighborhood of victim number three. You’ve just knocked to speak to the wife, and the potential witch when it rolls around the cul-de-sac as if it’s lost. The sun is shining in your eyes while you look at the street, so you don’t catch a glimpse of who’s driving but you’d know that hideous color anywhere. A minivan in that particular shade of dried shit isn’t a common car to drive, thankfully. You don’t think much more of it when the door in front of you is opened.

Your shower the next morning does nothing to wash the frustration off of you. The victim’s spouses so far are either innocent or very good at playing the mourning widow. Something in your gut thinks they’re genuine though. Every single one went on about their husbands like the sun shone out of their respective asses and in your experience scorned lovers are not that good at pretending miss a cheater.

Besides, you’ve already looked into their backgrounds and none of them appeared to take any acting classes or have anything out of the ordinary happen to them, except for their husbands dying gruesome deaths.

There’s no connection either. None of the wives knew each other, they all lived in different parts of town and flew in different social circles. Literally, it all comes back to the bar. 

The shower may leave your skin raw but the failure sticks to you. You need a way to lure this witch out. 

Although right now you need breakfast more.

You throw on something a little more casual today, intending to research this morning and scope out the bar tonight. Your hand is reaching to open your driver’s side door when you spot it again. In the edge of your peripheral vision. Parked across the street is that minivan.

Now had you not watched as much CSI and Veronica Mars maybe you’d think nothing of it. After all, Bobby trained you to track monsters not to be tracked. TV had taught you about being followed it was just not something you expected to be happening in real life. Why would anyone be following you around? It wasn’t a monsters prerogative.

The first step is obviously to test your theory. There’s a diner not far down the road but that may not be enough distance, so you elect to drive to a place ten minutes away. Plenty of time to check out your rear view mirror for not so sneaky cars that don’t blend in as much as they think they do.

At first, you think you’re being paranoid. This is crazy. Then the car behind swerves in the road and you catch it. The glint of brown that sticks out like a sore thumb.

Your plan changes in the time it takes for you to blink. Instead of carrying on to the diner you take a series of random turns only to have it blindingly confirmed that you’re being followed.

The gas station up ahead gives you an idea, so you pull in and carefully moderate your speed so that your walk into the store seems perfectly normal. You busy yourself with looking at the sodas since they give you a casual vantage point to see the door without seeming like you’re watching. It takes a few minutes but the minivan stops at the pump the other side of your car. A guy gets out but you’re so distracted in getting out of sight you don’t take a good look at him, beyond noticing that he’s tall. Tall enough that your best bet is keeping a low profile between aisles and hoping you can give him the slip.

By now you don’t care what the guy sitting at the register thinks of your behavior while you’ve ducked down to hide, you just want to get away from this dick. You count your breaths, in and out, until you decide to risk it. Looking out from behind a bag of chips you see a straight path to the door if you go now and _if_ he isn’t looking this way. There’s a lot of variables and not much time to make this decision.

Luckily, your feet make the decision for you.

Crouch running to the door you see a woman walking in and thank the heavens above. She looks at you like you’re absolutely insane when she holds the door open for you but she ultimately helps you get out unnoticed, you think.

The thing is you had no idea there was another guy still sitting in the hideous minivan.

When you sneak into your car and drive off as quickly as possible you never expect there to be an accomplice. You probably get five minutes away into the business district when the minivan is behind you again, no longer worrying about hiding itself.

You pull into the nearest parking lot, empty on a Sunday, and hear their tires screech behind you.

The gun you keep in your glove compartment is in your hand before you even shut the engine off. It doesn’t matter that it’s daylight and you haven’t even had a goddamn coffee yet, this ends now.

You jump out, gun raised at the minivan, “get out of the car or I’ll start shooting.”

“Calm down Y/N, we’re all friends here.” The voice comes from the driver’s side, so you aim more precisely.

“How the fuck do you know my name? Get out of the car now!”

Both doors open so the barrel of your gun darts threateningly between the men. They step out hands raised and concerned expressions on their dumb faces. 

“Well, what now sweetheart?” The shorter one, the driver, says with a cocky smirk on his face. Obviously, you tighten your aim at him then.

“Answer my question, how do you know who I am? Why are you following me in a shitty minivan?”

He throws a glare at his friend who offers him a bitch face in return that seems to say it isn’t the time.

“Bobby sent us. I’m Dean and this is Sam.”

“Winchester? He sent the Winchesters to follow me like I’m some kid? That goddamn old coot!” Although your gun is still raised your aim relaxes a bit. The fear of being followed diminishes somewhat only to be replaced by a flush of anger.

You grab your phone from your pocket and dial Bobby’s number without thinking about it. Your gun stays in your hand but now, with the safety clicked back into place, you wave it around while you talk as if to punctuate every sarcastic word you say into Bobby Singers voicemail.

“Hi, Bobby. You missing me? The weather sure is great down here, makes hunting these witches all the nicer. Funny story. Bumped into your supposed houseguests, well, I say bumped into them. Dumb and Dumber were following me in a minivan with South Dakota plates so, not exactly quaking in my boots at their detective work. I gotta go, got a witch to catch and all but we will be having a _very_ long conversation about this when I get back, so I’d start working on your excuses now.”

When you shove the phone back into your pocket and stow the gun in your jeans they’re both staring at you with wide eyes.

That’s when it hits you. These guys could actually be useful.

“Bobby was just worried about you.” Sam begins an attempt to calm you down with a half-smile and a shrug.

You wave your hand in the air, silencing him, “not important right now. Which one of you wants to have a loud and public argument with me before trying to cheat on me in some dive bar. I need to bag me a vengeful witch.”


End file.
